Monterra's Deliciosa & Other Tales & by Anna Tambour Read Free Book Online Page A

... And then, a simple ad, with no picture: Miss Cassandra. I can see the future. When your's is clouded, come to see me. Don't leave your life till its to late. Dial now. The spelling in the whole magazine was subliterate, so Grace didn't hold it against the woman. The main attraction was the area code. An hour's drive away. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and if she hurried and put out Hyperica's lunch in case she came home, Grace could take off for the day, and be back before Cloudmere came home. Her crockpot bubbled patiently, there was a trifle hidden under the medlar tree, and dinner would be on time. She picked up the phone ...
    ~
    One hour and fifteen minutes later, Grace Dunphy, , the picture of a mature and a sensible woman, keeper of an orderly and lovely home, distinguished Classics reader and possessor of an officially designated "first-class mind" (Balliol), pressed her finger to a brass button under a plaque that said in French script, "Miss Cassandra".
    Mrs. Dunphy did not wait long before the door was opened by a short, plump woman whose face was clean as Mrs. Dunphy's floor. "Good afternoon," Miss Cassandra greeted Mrs. Dunphy accurately. Her smile was warm but not overly sweet.
    Wafting Pears soap, she led the way down an immaculate hallway, all white walls and polished wood floor, to a little room with one round wooden table and two comfortable chintz-covered chairs; in one corner, a coat rack, and the other, a gas heater quietly throwing out its warmth to the room.
    "Would you like to hang up your coat, Mrs. Smith, and settle yourself down while I make us a nice cup of tea," Miss Cassandra smiled, and to "Mrs. Smith's" docile "Yes, please," she bustled out. The tea must have been brewing because in less than a minute, she was back, wheeling in a trolley with a tea service for two, two plates, and a large platter of what looked like homemade biscuits.
    "Shall I be Mum?"
    "Yes, please," Grace Dunphy answered politely. There were no crystal balls in evidence. In fact, this woman was more a cross between her adored old gran and her Nanny Fithers.
    "Aah, that's more like it," Miss Cassandra said, as she held the fragrantly steaming cup with both hands. "I can't think straight without a cup and a nibble, you know. Always been this way." The tea, smoky as lapsang but summery as freshly tramped clover, must have been this lady's own blend. The biscuits were also truly delightful. Coriander and cardamom, Grace thought. She looked at the woman and the woman looked back. The only sound was that of cups and delicate embibement.
    Cups finished, the last crumbs wiped from mouths, Miss Cassandra began.
    "Mrs. Smith," she again smiled, "if that is what you would like me to call you. You have come to me because you are troubled in your heart about your daughter. Is that not so?"
    Mrs. Dunphy nodded. She had told Miss Cassandra nothing except her "name" and the time she would arrive for her appointment.
    "Melissa—is that her name?"
    Grace looked a bit more hopefully at this "Miss Cassandra" woman. "Yes," she said. "Melissa is my daughter's name." Melissa was close enough. She'd agonized over the name for her child. She believed in symbolism, and the name would mark her child for a future, she was sure of it. Should it be Melissa (balm) or should she favour the calming properties of St. Johnswort—Hyperica? She'd tossed them over as well as Cicely, Gilead, Violet, Laurel. All known for their abilities to soothe, heal, restore. Cloudmere had left this important decision to his wife, as the symbolism was lost on him. And anyway, he was much more used to numbers. As things turned out, Grace might as well have called her daughter Wolfsbane.
    Miss Cassandra put both hands on the table and leaned towards Grace with intense concentration.
    "You are most concerned about your daughter living with you and your husband, are you not, Mrs. Smith." It was a statement, not a question, and was answered by a somewhat incredulous